El color del luto

Como hablar... si es un tema tabu. La muerte es mas cercana al mundo de la ficcion, reservada a los thrillers y peliculas de miedo. Pero resulta que es parte de nuestra realidad, una parte que logramos ignorar hasta que nos chocamos de frente con ella. En mi familia tuvimos la suerte de evitarla por muchos anos.

Llego. Una persona amada ya no esta. Ceso de respirar, su corazon se paro. El calor, el amor, la alegria, el dolor abandonaron su cuerpo. Al tocarlo senti el frio, la nada. Su cuerpo lo pusimos en la tierra, vestida de blanco. Y sin embargo en cada rincon de la casa esta su presencia, en el jardin su cara, su risa, su voz. Todo el amor que nos dio esta presente y no me explico que no este. Una parte de mi aun no lo aprehende.

Siempre pense en la muerte sin drama, casi con objetividad. Es el final de la vida.
Creo que cesamos de ser quienes somos. Creo que algo de lo que fuimos permanece, quizas algo sigue viajando hacia adelande, quizas sigue un camino que ascapa a nuestra capacidad de comprender. Fuera de las limitaciones de los vivos. Mas bien no creo en el cielo o el infierno como destinos finales del alma. No se si la persona que muere sufre, me gustaria pensar que no.

Al margen de lo que creo, duele. No le encuentro explicacion al dolor. Duele porque todo lo que ella fue para mi ya no tiene su propia voz, porque no puedo decirle que la quiero, porque no estuve alli. No se porque duele. Quizas por puro egoismo. Porque lo que me entrego es tan precioso...

No se como llevar el luto porque el negro no expresa ni por asomo todo lo que pasa por mi mente. El negro de tranquilidad, elegancia y glamour me parece el menos adecuado para la ocasion. A mi me duele como una puesta de sol de estas impresionantes que uno mira ambriento consciente de que es unica e irrepetible. Como la vida de una persona. Su olor sus particularidades que aprendi a comprender, sus sacrificios, sus errores, sus juicios.

El color de luto es pura belleza, belleza crudamente vivida. Tan sobrecogedora que deja mi alma abierta de un corte largo en el centro de mi misma. Vulnerable, huerfana.
Como hablar... como explicar que la persona que mas me quiso del mundo ya no esta.
Ya no me reprendera por cortarme el pelo o por llevar un tatuaje. No preguntara porque no me haya casado. No sera bisabuela. Duele porque la quiero y no esta a mi alcance darle ese amor.

Ojala ella sintiera su vida llena de amor que nos ha dado.
Ojala este libre del dolor y pena y de las limitaciones humanas.
Ojala este libre... Ojala eso ser signifique libertad.
Ojala haya paz infinita en el no ser.
Ojala nosotros sepamos honrar la memoria.

Laundry time Compassion

Some time ago I set a goal for myself: to dig down there and do the laundry. So I did. Past present and future that make each individual needed a good reevaluating and reframing. The wounds that didn't heal needed attention so needed the expectations I had for the future. The present was like an untidy room, I couldn't use anymore. It's been around a year since I started laundering, I'm not done yet.

I can't even start telling what have happened during this time, a long time and a fruitful one. It turned out that I started hearing mySelf. I could explained it through different spiritual dialects, but here I have a commitment to find my own words. Getting to know oneSelf was difficult. I was my own obstacle on the way. I wanted to be this or that. I wanted to fulfill certain criteria. I wanted to achieve... Instead, I just needed to Be.

To Be is a difficult task: to be hear and now, to be who you are not who you are supposed to be. It takes time to accept the imperfection of oneself. To Be is a daily exercise. I find myself in the middle of a spinning world and I stop for a minute "hey, here I Am". I'm still the one who wants the world to be in a certain way and the things to work in an order but I stop myself to Be at least sometimes. I've discovered Compassion. I don't even fully understand what it is but IT is, an understanding: to understand and to be understanding?

Now it is turn to understand the other Selves. Those people around who do crazy things, sometimes hurtful and disrespectful. Some of them don't even know themSelves. But there they are, a part of this world, all walking universes that collide with mine more or less gracefully. The fact that we are part of the same Thing doesn't make it any easier to accept their differences and their impact on me.

Com - pa - ssion

No place called home

These days I feel like there is no place called home. How did it happen?
Once, I dreamt of being a traveler who would discover the world out there. Out there was anywhere away from the place that I remember like in a dream. The perfect playground to enjoy the elements, to feel the wind throwing rain in my face. Wind playing in the mighty trees, murmuring the news from far away. I just listened to that call and when I had the opportunity I left. I didn’t know what it meant to leave behind the place called home and I didn’t know that I would be a foreigner. But it didn’t matter to me because I felt a stranger anyway.
I did discover the world, love, disappointment, trust. I became that stranger who walks the streets of anywhere as if they were my home town’s streets. I look inside those people, strangers who know where they belong and I see the same fears and dreams I have.
I never belonged to anywhere and I don’t feel I've lost the places I left behind.
I've been discovering the world but I am just starting to discover myself. I am proud of where I got and of the human being I became. I couldn't say if the travel changed me or if it allowed me to become myself. I got here and I wouldn’t go back. There are closed chapters. For good or for bad. I know there is a way in front of me and it’s just waiting to materialize.
Right now my fight is to be myself, and to give what I have to offer to people. Maybe then I can find a place I belong to.

“Life is a dream and dreams are dreams”

My last journey is being a real challenge. I went deep down myself. I am walking my own insides. The person who I am: a dreamer. I found anger and love, peace, war. I deceive myself about my own life and the person who I am.
I am the one who builds my own false paths and tries to find the truth. I trap myself and open doors to set me free. Too often I forget that the ground under my feed is unsteady. Like Alice in wonderland growing and turning small, scared, insecure. Who to trust and worse if to trust myself.
I want to make peace. I want to let go the old wars, the ones that were fought in my name. I want to let go the hate that has never been mine and love that didn’t nourish. I want to let go the pain, hurtful words, silent screams. I want to leave behind the bad dream that brings the fears I don’t want to see. Past.
So I dreamt of a path I could take. The illusion I temporarily built, was a trap for myself. There is no one to blame. I forgot how easy it is to get lost without even realising. The need to adapt yourself to the requirements of the world around places us in front of a mirror with a model already drawn. I find it difficult to erase the way my life should be and make my own path.

Love letters

Imagine... imagine that someone is writing love letters and bringing them to the postman with no other address than "anyone". The postman sends them to the people around. Some of them will say "it's not for me". Others will open it and their heart will jump, because there is someone who is talking TO THEM. Then sometimes the one who wrote the letter and the one who received it will meet each other. Each of them will leave their loneliness at home and say hello. And they will say "I know you" and they will kiss...
Do they know each other? When the one who sent the message: "I want to love YOU", who did s/he mean? And the YOU who received a letter addressed to anyone, who is s/he?

The words are wrong and so the feelings get... confused. YOU- one word that refers to anyone - are different from any other you, and I don't really know who YOU are. when I say "I love you" I refer to myself, but you don't know me. I could be anyone. So when I say "I love you" I'm cheating twice. Once, because I'm not really telling you who I am, twice because I pretend that I know who YOU are.

More than words: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9CeNo4Q7p0

Thus, when I find out that the one who says "I love you", doesn't really know me, I feel deceived. But I am not without guilt: I didn't tell him who I was.

The words, which meaning we take for granted, deceive and lie. We are the performers and the victim of our own lie.

Words are powerful weapons. You take one and throw it into an open heart and you cause damage. But it wasn't me who you threw the word-grenade at. It was just anyone. I'm not there to suffer because you don't know me.

And so I'm back to my loneliness. I feel safe and I decide not to send any letters for a while.

Snowy days

Small flakes flow around innocently till the city is covert in magic.The brown leaves left behind their due date, felt on the white streets producing an unexpected colour scheme. It's an early surprise that brings forward Christmas atmosphere.
The cold hits my face, wakes me up in my inner refuge where I wintered during summer. Sometimes it seems almost necessary to go deep inside and then come out again. I'm still sleepy, a bit lethargic, barely aware of something coming up. Something that have been growing and taking shape. I don't know yet what it is but it has the mysterious colours of autumn and afternoon sunshine reflections. And I'm dying to paint it, sing it and dance it in a ritual that will let it free.
I just dreamt a dream and even if I don't remember the details I'm enjoying its taste in my memory, still half asleep.

"No se manana, se de hoy"

One of those days in July I woke up slowly becoming aware of the sounds around me. The coming and going of the trains. I imagined the roar of trolleys and people saying goodbye or hello.

I slowly became aware of the softness of the mattress as I lied curled in the middle of a king size bed. It smelled of a hotel room but it wasn’t the hotel I work at. I was alone in bed. I cried, just for a moment I felt lonely and I missed something. Then I let go the love and the dream. The man who left the room earlier that morning was not part of me anymore. I didn’t go with him to the station to say goodbye, and I didn’t want to keep his presence in the city I lived in now. I let him go.

It took me a couple of weeks to realize that I was free. As I was listening to Rosana “no se manana se de hoy”. “Hoy no es amor, no es ternura, no es odio ni amargura”. That morning someone I was ready to start a life with few months earlier became a stranger.